


Promised Lands: Tears of Gaia [Rewritten]

by LeNosferatu



Series: Promised Lands [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alchemy, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Bisexual Female Character, Dark, F/F, Fantasy, Female Protagonist, Feminist Themes, LGBTQ Character, LGBTQ Themes, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Philosophy, Religion, Romance, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-04
Updated: 2017-10-14
Packaged: 2019-01-09 00:11:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12264894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeNosferatu/pseuds/LeNosferatu
Summary: Losing her memories, a soldier found herself tangled in an inevitable war between the Church, the Vampires, the Alchemists and the rest of the mankind. (LGBT: Girl on Girl, contains mature content)





	1. fyrstr

When darkness greeted her sight and her chest had gotten tight, she had all the reasons to have a fright.

The air wouldn't go in, no matter how many times she gasped for it. Instead, dirt and vile stench were all she's inhaling. Wet earth. She could feel them on her tongue, squirming as she heaved. Some had rolled their way into her throat. Moist and crumbly—perhaps the soil, or worse, perhaps other things. Worms, maggots, anything. Why it's there in the first place was a mystery to wonder. She coughed it out a few times before it suffocated her any further.

Her arms flailed, thrashing around only to bump the surface all over her. The surrounding felt familiar against her skin. It was wooden, hard, and thick, enclosing her in like a box. Or a chest. Or a coffin.

Coffin. The mere thought made her shudder.

_I'm not dead yet, aren't I...?_

Once, twice, three times. She pushed and pushed but the barrier wouldn't budge. Not even an inch. Soon, came the growing panic, the whirling sensation in her head became overwhelming. Dizzy. She could feel death approaching.

"Hey!" she screamed. Perhaps anyone would hear her distress call. But to her dread, her voice was stuck in her throat. Again and again, she yelled. No use. Nothing came out except for a wheezing noise of her asthmatic gasps. She began to lay punches, hoping to make a tiny bit of a fracture.

However, the more she struck the wooden topside, the more dirt fell through. A similar consistency of what's once inside her mouth flopped onto her face.

_Soil? Where am I? Am I buried?_

Her fear escalated as there's nothing she could do to breach the casket. Her palm roamed all over the impeding structure, looking for some sort of gap to break away. But there was nothing. No panel, latch, handle, nothing at all.

Except for the rift across her face, right where the ground poured through.

She slipped her hand. The vertical opening was too small. Only three of her fingers managed to get outside. She could feel the damp earth. Moving up and down, her digits touched something chunky. Something she could not make of.

The texture was recognizable. There's only one thing with such twisted fibrous strands—a rope. Someone had laid a rope horizontally across the surface. The supple cord wouldn't bend no matter how many times she nudged it. This must be the thing that held the casket tightly.

_I need to cut it down!_

Again, her hands wandered around. There must be something she could use. Something sharp. Wood fragments, a stone, a splinter, anything. Unfortunately, there was nothing other than the ragged outfit on her body. Not even footwear wrapped around her feet. Meanwhile, as seconds passed and the walls inside her chest stiffened, she began to panic.

_No, no, I don't want to die, not like this!_

She grabbed the fold of her tabard, loosening the collar in hope to breathe easier. She knew it was futile. Tight or not, clothes or no clothes, it'd be the same. There was little to no air to begin with. Perhaps it's best to just give into the abyss.

She was ready to accept the inevitable when her elbow poked something below her garment, a solid object with a definite shape right on her left waist. She pulled it out from its nesting place.

It was a dagger.

A glimpse of hope returned to her. At last. A means of a way out. Whether it'd be favorable or not, she had to try. Clinging into a tiny spark of optimism, she inserted the blade into the gaping fissure.

_Thank Goddess...!_

It fitted. Clumsily, she dragged the blade back and forth. Hands trembled that she couldn't even cut properly. Ramming and ramming, the tear on the leash gradually became imminent.

_Come on. Come on, just a bit more..._

Her grip on the weapon became unsteady. The chest pain was unbearable she could feel her lungs closing in. A few seconds more and she would depart from this life.

_...now!_

With her remaining strength, she gave the casket the strongest push she could make. She was prepared to embrace the air, but, to her horror, as the lid tossed open, a heap of soil collapsed through, smothering her altogether. Desperately, she clawed her way out as her throat filled with dirt once more.

The sunlight welcomed her sight once she emerged from beneath. Rolling over, she threw herself flat on the ground, coughing and spitting lumps of earthen masses out of her mouth. Finally, she could breathe again. The expulsion had freed her air passage clear. Up and down, up and down. Her chest raised and fell with every breath she took.

Closing her eyes, she began to regain composure. Breathing was never been this delightful. Like a luxury, she did her best savoring all the fresh air she could. She didn't dare to imagine what'd happen if she didn't come out sooner. Or if no dagger was there to save her soul.

The dagger.

She snapped her eyes open. It's still there within her grasp. She brought it closer to her face. Suddenly, flashes of images started appearing inside her head.

People. People with pitchforks. People rallied with weapons. Screaming, crying, wailing. Fire. Huge fire. Hanging ropes. Bodies on the hanging ropes. People threw rocks at her, people threw rocks at...them. Someone grabbed her by the hair, pouring something into her mouth. Something hit her on the back. Darkness.

_Who?_

She shook her head. No faces. She couldn't see faces in those images. It was a blur all over.

_What happened? Why am I here?_

She tried to stand up but her legs gave way. Beads of sweat rolled down her forehead as she glanced at her side.

The shallow grave she just broke through. One amongst many others. Five. There were five of them, laid side by side six feet underground. All of the burials looked recent. The dead seemed to have suffered the same fate as her.

_Who are these people?_

Her heart pounded faster.

_...Why am I the only one alive?_

 

xxx

 

Holding the flagon closely, she finished her drink in one swig. Her hooded figure observed the whole tavern. The reek of alcohol and meat mixed with old boots and sweat wasn't exactly unusual to look about. Something else had piqued her interest.

The atmosphere. The expressions. The behavior of the patrons. Everything was different than weeks ago, the last time she visited. Men and women, young and elderly, everyone seemed to be in a festive ambiance. They danced, clapped, and sang along with the minstrels, unaware of a pair of eyes watching from the corner.

"Not feeling the party, eh?"

She turned her gaze to find a man stood by the table, pointing at the stool beside her.

"May I sit here?"

The man was holding a decanter in his hand. He wore peasant attire and a felt hat, looking harmless enough. She then nodded.

"Want some?" he offered the drink in his metal jug, noticing her empty glass. She flatly refused.

"So why don't you dance? Or sing along?" he asked again, attempting to initiate a conversation. The man didn't seem to catch on her demeanor. This irked her since she wanted to be alone. But then again, she had to keep her calm or risked making a scene around. Perhaps this man could provide information she's been looking for.

"I don't know what I shall celebrate for."

"Huh? You don't feel happy with our victory?"

"Is this what it's all about? I keep hearing vampires being spoken."

"Ah," the man clicked his tongue, "not from here, are you? Let me guess, a merchant?"

"Yes, from the north. Last week I heard the southern border is open for trade so I came here."

"It is. Damn, I envy you traders. Haven't had a chance to go beyond the outpost myself. My work prevents me from leaving town," he poured ale into her flagon, "my treat. Enjoy."

"Thank you."

"Deep Woods is one hell of a trouble. Still, can't believe we finally open the border. How was your journey?"

"Fine, I guess. I got lost so many times."

"Deep Woods is Deep Woods. Sometimes you can go in but not go out," he raised his mug to his lips, "no vampire attacks?"

She shook her head and sipped her drink.

"Heh, of course not. Cause we've killed them all. Every last one of them." He smirked, "Still, welcome to Svaros, though. Not much in here. We're still recovering but hope you enjoy your stay."

"Those vampires, I thought they're extinct already?"

"They are. Not their sodding spawns, though. You know the halfbreeds?"

"I've heard stories. They can walk in the daylight and all those things."

"Well let me tell you. The southern border was closed for a long time because of those animals," he eyed the barmaid behind the counter, "what's worse, they could be anyone and we never knew about it."

He finished his drink and poured for another.

"Those...abominations. Mating with humans. How disgusting," he growled, "first thing they're your spouse, your friend, your neighbors, next thing they're beasts. Draining your herds dry and kidnapping your children. That feeling when you had a traitor among your own people..."

She kept listening.

"Every month," he looked at her in the eyes, "we sent search parties to the woods. None returned. Grieving widows and widowers everywhere. Took my Gonzo too last year."

"Your family?"

"My goat," He gulped another glass, "sodding bloodthirsty demons preying on us poor folks. I raised that thing for years and it's gone in one night!"

"Why didn't the king send his Paladin Knights? They used to hunt vampires long ago."

"He doesn't care about us, young lady. He doesn't care about southern lands. Hell, nobody does except for peddlers like you. Bet he doesn't even know our messengers never made it to Irkalla! Bah, have to fend for ourselves all the time."

His eyes started to turn red as his speech became a slur. All those shots had finally taken control.

"But tell you what, that doesn't matter anymore, eh? You merchants are here. We rebuild. People are happy. And those things are sodding dead."

"How can you be sure? You said anyone could be a halfbreed?"

"Did you pass by the gallows? There we hung their chieftain and his underlings," he said, "joined the militia myself. Drew them into our trap like a blind fish they're."

"All of them?"

"Some escaped. But we followed them to their camps. Burned them to the ground. Left no one alive," he said again, "now it's been two weeks and still no attack. We did it, you see. We won."

She left the tavern after putting a few bronze coins on the table. The man had gotten even more intoxicated and started to make his way to the barmaid, leaving her alone in her seat. It didn't matter. She'd heard enough. The plan had worked. Effortlessly so. Knowing that nothing she did for the town of Svaros was in vain, she could finally go back to her research, to her cure.

_Nothing can stop me now._

 

xxx

 

_Food...water..._

Four days. Four days she dragged her feet through the forest, or so she thought. She remembered witnessing four sunrises without a drop of water. The riverside path she took was as dry as a desert. It's as if this barren land was left by humans long ago, leaving it untouched and desolated. On top of that, not a single animal could be seen. Even insects seemed to have migrated somewhere else.

She had lost any sense of direction. First, she went to the north when it turned to be nothing but wilted jungle. Another time she decided to walk east, following the sunrise, again it was all lifeless trees. This bleak woodland appeared to be endless no matter how far she ventured. After the fourth sunrise, she just stopped counting as her body became weaker and her mind grew emptier. She was like a walking vessel with death lurking closer.

She stood on a ledge overlooking the whole woods. The darkness limited her already feeble eyesight. Only dense, desiccated ground as far as one could see.

_Where am I?_

The night air pierced her skin. She trembled when the wind blew slightly. Cold. Her tattered clothing and barefooted state provided no warmth to her body. Her grip on the dagger loosened as she shivered. She could only watch as the knife fell out her hands, hit against a rock and came off the ridge.

_No...!_

Her body reflexively jumped forward, attempting to catch the only thing she had. However, without grasping anything to hold on, she failed to keep her balance and slipped off the edge.

Then, everything happened so fast.

The woods rustled as she tumbled for what felt like forever, rolling down hitting trees and branches along the way. She lost control of her own body. It's as if she wouldn't stop falling through the air.

Halfway down, the trees gave way and before she knew it, she was hurtling over the dry grass, earth, and rocks, until her body run into a large tree stump and she finally fell into darkness.

 

xxx

 

She woke up by the sounds of anvils and hammers. An unfamiliar view greeted her sight. The stained walls, wooden furniture, and those bookcases were nothing she'd seen before her eyes.

_What...?_

There's that sound again. The clanging metals. She looked around. The windows were open wide. Curious, she tried to sit up. A cracking noise of her bones could be heard somewhere in her back.

_I'm still alive...?_

She stared outside.

There was a metalworking shack across the street. An old man with a lavish beard was giving instructions to the three teenagers before him—a girl and two boys—seemingly to be his apprentices. He was praising her for hammering the iron right and asking the others to follow through.

_Where am I?_

The neighborhood was full of mercantile establishments. She could see the forge, armorer, potter, tailor, butcher, and so on. People went back and forth with their carts and baskets. Children were playing in the street, chasing after each other with what appeared to be wooden sticks. She heard them saying 'My turn! My turn to be the Dragonbane!' While some of the adults yelled for them to move out the way.

_How did I come here?_

She swallowed. The last thing she saw was the massive stump before the blackout. She didn't remember being near any civilization before. There must be someone who'd come to her rescue.

_Who brought me here?_

While she was deep in thought, suddenly the door creaked open. She turned to find a brunette woman in white smock under a brown kirtle. In her hands were a book and a sack of something unknown. They looked at each other for a few seconds before her brows creased in shock,

"You shouldn't be up yet...!"

 

xxx

 

She didn't know where to begin.

Laid on the table was an amount of food one would expect to be several days' worth. At the sight of what appeared to be some roast her mouth watered. On the side, plates of potatoes, cheese, sausages, and pickles with a basket of bread stared back at her. The wafting aroma kept luring, calling out her famished soul. She couldn't keep her hands any longer.

Without hesitation she grabbed the pork leg, ripping a chunk off with her teeth.

The brunette stood by the bookcase with her arms folded, watching in amusement. No words were exchanged. Only glances. She didn't care if the woman would judge her in silence. She didn't even care being watched gnawing clean on the bones. Everything, even the grease and pickle juice flowed through her fingers were ambrosial. As if losing control, her body moved on its own, stuffing her face like it's her last meal on earth.

"I wonder when was the last time you saw food," the woman spoke after a long silence. In her voice was a mix of awe and wonder. Meanwhile, she only looked at her wordlessly while munching on another handful of sausage links. The brunette continued to stare at her, hand on her mouth, obviously holding back her laughter. Perhaps she was still thinking about the loud stomach grumble she heard moments ago.

A clump of meat got stuck in her throat as she moved onto the next plate. Along with the surging air, the pressure pulled the muscle of her chest. Weird noises started to come out of her mouth.

"Good lord," she saw the woman rushed to the door, "I'll get you more water."

Dropping the bread, she snatched the napkin nearby. Eyes winced every time her body jerked in a spasm. She regretted having eaten way too fast like that.

"Here, hold your breath and drink slowly," she returned with a metal carafe. She could feel the woman's hand stroke her back lightly as she drank.

Only when the hiccups died down, she realized the disaster on the table. Plates, bowls, scraps, grease, and carcasses spread everywhere in a disarray manner. Guilt washed her. Hunger had taken over her conscience that she'd forgotten she was in someone else's home.

"Do you wanna eat more?"

She shook her head. Her stomach felt full by just looking at the ruins before her. That was a lot of food. No normal person would satiate such amount of helping in one sitting. Sick and amazed at the same time, she couldn't help but feel disgusted with herself.

"Alright, then," she began taking the plates, "I'll be back in a minute."

"Wait."

To her surprise, her voice had returned. Though it's still hoarse and somewhat inhuman, it was strange to finally talk after what felt like forever. She made a sound in between a cough and a sharp inhale in attempt to clear her gorge.

"Let me help, please." She said again, much clearer this time.

"I don't think you're able to walk just yet," the woman nodded towards her legs, "you didn't notice the bandages?"

She immediately looked below and found beige cotton fabric wrapped neatly around her right knee. A brownish stain could be seen in the middle, presumably dried blood.

"Wh—what happened...?"

"I don't know. Did you trip and fall or something? I found you here with your ligament torn already."

Her lips parted in a daze, "That...that bad...?"

"You're technically crippled right now."

She could only watch in silence as the brunette continued to wipe the table. And in that moment, instead of being a helping hand, her body decided to release a reflex, expelling a blob of foul gas in the form of a very loud belch.

"S—sorry!"

The woman shook her head in disbelief. Suddenly, she wanted nothing more than to crawl back into the grave. 

 

xxx

 

"You're in Ceville."

She turned away from the window and found the woman stood at the bedside, looking at her with a smile.

"My name is Morgana."

"Morgana..."

"You've been staring outside the whole time. Figured you must be wondering where you are."

"No, I was just...well, yes. Yes, I was," she blinked in confusion, "how...how did I come here?"

"To my house? Elder Nerida wants me to look after you."

"Elder Nerida?"

"The village's elder," Morgana sat down, putting her palm on her forehead, "hmm, your temperature is normal."

"Is something wrong?"

"No. The opposite even. It surprised me that you woke up a day earlier than I expected."

"A day earlier? How long was I asleep...?"

"Two days. You're unconscious when the villagers brought you to my door."

"Ah..." she looked at her leg again. Slowly, she tried to move it around. Painful. She bit her lips. The ache made her eyes begin to water. Morgana noticed what she's doing and stopped her right away.

"Don't. Unless you want to make it worse," she adjusted it back up, "you'll be able to walk in several weeks."

That sounded like a really long time. She sighed and looked at Morgana again. Her eyes—green eyes were examining the bandage closely. Faint dark circles rested below those eyes. She could see tiny freckles across her turned-up nose and high cheekbones from this distance. Her downturned lips were of the light shade of red sandstone. She wore her hair in a side braid, loosely hung around her shoulder. Her pale skin was a little reddish, possibly from being outdoor working under the sun. The woman was fairly thin—her collarbones were prominent against her skin. If she had to guess, Morgana probably was around the same age as her, if not younger.

"How did you end up in Ravaged Woods?"

"Ravaged Woods?"

"They said they found you there lying on the ground."

Ravaged Woods. So that's the place she was lost in. No wonder it bore such a dreadful name, suitably so. It did look like something had pillaged and caused such extensive destruction to the whole forest. To find a civilization such as Ceville beyond the area was like a mirage, like an oasis in the middle of a wasteland.

"I..." she mashed her lips together, not knowing what to say, "...I broke through my grave."

"Excuse me?"

"I woke up inside a casket. I think—I think I was supposed to be dead or something..."

Morgana stared at her with her forehead wrinkled,

"You're actually serious."

"That must've sounded crazy," she sighed, rubbing her temples, "I wish I was joking. I don't understand what happened myself."

"Why would you be dead?"

She shrugged, "I'm not sure. So I just kept walking. Next thing I knew I was in that...dead woods."

Suddenly, she remembered the second before her body fell off the edge. The reason why she lost her balance in the first place.

_The dagger!_

Her fingers immediately crept into her pockets. Nothing. Moving inside her robe, again, nothing. The fold of her girdle, the backside, everywhere. Nothing. Nowhere. That thing must've lost somewhere, laid deep in Ravaged Woods.

"Hey, hey, are you alright?" Morgana saw her mumbling to herself in a state of distress.

"...no way."

"What is it?"

"I lost it!"

"What?"

"My dagger..."

As if realizing something, Morgana bolted from her seat and walked to the corner of the room—towards a wooden dresser. Fumbling around a little, she returned back to the bed.

"You're looking for this?"

There, in her hand, a short knife with some sort of strap served as an extension on its leather scabbard. Nothing remarkable with the grip, a few scratches could be seen on the surface. The crossguard shaped like a two-headed serpent. Her eyes widened.

"That's...! Wait, how did you get that...?"

"The elder asked me to keep it before some scoundrels exchanged it for a few silvers," Morgana handed it over, "he said they found it near your body."

She rubbed the weapon nervously. Not believing it would return again. It was what kept her sane. As if she had any belonging worth saving.

"Thank you. Thank you for everything..."

"Not me. You should thank those children if you must."

"Children?"

"You were lucky they frolicked in the woods."

"I—I see..." she said, "...but still, I wish there's something I could do in return."

"You've helped me clean the pantry though,"

Her cheeks reddened.

"I'm—I'm sorry..."

Morgana chuckled, "I only patched your leg and give you my bed. It's just part of my job."

"You're a physician?"

"Unregistered one. Elder Nerida is the only physician here. I'm his apprentice."

"What does that mean?"

"What, unregistered?" Morgana arched her brows, "It means I can't perform a surgery or charge you a coin."

"That's too bad. Why do you need to be registered?"

"Wait a minute," the brunette shifted in her seat, "are you a foreigner?"

"...huh?"

"You speak like an Irkallan though. Are you a Kelredano? Gailanese?"

All those words sounded alien in her ears. She didn't understand anything Morgana was saying.

"I...I don't get it?"

"You don't seem to understand the Alchemist Guild system here."

"Alchemist Guild?"

The way Morgana stared at her as if she had two heads. Suddenly, her expression turned serious.

"Who are you?"

"Who...am I?"

She stared at her hands in horror. No names. No places. No familiar faces. Nothing came up in mind. The only thing in her head was the vague images of the angry mob in an unknown place.

_Who am I? What's my name?_

"You don't remember who you are," Morgana looked at her in the eyes. It was a statement, rather than a question.

Her grasp on the dagger tightened as her sight began to spin. She wanted to dig deep into her memories but the effort was in vain. The harder she tried to remember, the more throbbing the headache became. It's as if her mind rejected any attempt to reach self-cognitions. Morgana scooted closer, pushed her backwards gently, helping her lie back in bed.

"You must've received quite a blow in the head. You should rest."

"It...hurts...!" she groaned. The dagger was dropped in an instant. It knocked onto the floor, its sheath disengaged. Morgana paused for a moment as she noticed something off. She picked it up, examining carefully.

"Hestia?" the brunette muttered the carved letters on the blade.

The woman's voice went straight to her head. Another flash of images rushed before her eyes. Like sequences. She heard people saying that name again and again; different voices yet still no faces. Eventually, she began to understand.

"Morgana," she swallowed, clutching her head, "That...that's my—I think that's my name..."

 

xxx

 

Irkalla. 120 days ago.

Duchess Geneive had requested an audience with Grand Paladin Irvine, the kingdom's most renowned warrior for his achievement slaying a dragon in Cadaver Hills. The meeting was not to be attended by other than the two, for it was supposed to be clandestine.

"Your Excellency, Her Grace is expecting you. Please, come in." the duchess' personal servant bowed before disappeared, closing the door behind her.

Irvine looked around. Not the first time he entered her bedchamber, yet everything never failed to amaze him. The drapery, carpets, furniture, paintings, and the fireplace. Not to mention some of her personal collection of statues and figurines. The aura of femininity with a sense of class and royalty, the place gave him a strange sense of serenity as well as chivalry. Deep down he wished the Paladin tower was as stunning with less reeks of misery.

"Good to see you again, Grand Paladin Irvine."

"Your Grace, at your service," he bowed, lowering his hood. His silver hair was a contrast with the dominant red velvet of the room, shining like a sword on a bed of roses.

"Smuggled as a nurse again, aren't you? Varna is most genius indeed."

"She is certainly an amazing servant, Your Grace."

"We don't have much time. People are going to talk if you linger for too long. I want the report on the halfbreeds."

"Preparations are complete."

"I don't want things to get to His Majesty before it's time. Are you sure your soldiers won't be suspicious?"

"Worry not, Your Grace. I did not tell them the true objectives. I'll make sure your seal is delivered."

"How can I have your word on it? I have spent so much on this expedition, Grand Paladin."

"I believe there'd be uproar if we told these soldiers what they're facing against."

"Yes, people would always jump into conclusions," the duchess sighed, "very few people understood the significance of my family's legacy."

"And I'm honored to help you continue it, Your Grace, for the better future."

He saw her smiled.

"Eight garrison soldiers—new recruits. A small squad," he said again "they will depart by sunrise."

"Will that be enough?"

"I don't advise to send a platoon, Your Grace. It's best to masquerade as a small pilgrimage."

"I see. Have one of your Paladin Knights guard them. I believe it doesn't hurt to have a little protection."

Irvine cleared his throat in doubt.

"Paladin? I—I don't think I can provide anyone from my rank, Your Grace. That'd be too risky. I humbly apologize."

"No, you can. I have someone in mind."

"And who that might be?"

"I believe there's someone named Hestia. She's as naïve as you think could be."

_Cause she never disobeys orders, just like Adonis._

 

xxx


	2. Chapter II: annarr

"And your age?"

Hestia shook her head.

"Hmm," Morgana moved the quill, writing some more, "alright. So no origin and identity. How about a friend or a relative?"

"I don't remember that either..."

"Nothing at all?"

"Well, there are...there are bits and pieces that I keep seeing over and over. Like—like it's stuck there inside my head...?"

She glanced at the small book on Morgana's lap. The binding, a slender strap, hung loosely in the air. Scratches and abrasions could be seen on the leather cover. The worn-off, rather discolored appearance made the book look antiquated. It's the same book Morgana had been holding the first time she saw her at the door.

"Can you explain the vision then?"

"The things I saw?"

Morgana nodded.

"I'm not sure..." Hestia looked at the ceiling, exhaling. The pillows eased her throbbing head a little bit, "I don't know what to make of it."

"Just say anything. Details matter if you want to retrace your memories."

"I keep seeing places that I don't know of. Woods...encampments...houses...buildings. Everything is so..." she closed her eyes, "...random."

The scribbling sounds ensued.

"Then I saw people. They're all angry...at me I suppose...? I'm not sure. They looked hostile."

"Hostile?"

"They threw stuff at me. I think...I think they wanted to hurt me..."

"Now that makes sense."

"What?"

"Your clothes," Morgana closed the book, putting her pen aside, "there's a large blood stain on the back of your clothes. I thought it's not yours."

"Blood...?"

"I haven't looked into it yet so I can't say anything," Morgana got up from her seat and headed for the door, "wait just a moment."

Hestia sat back up, rubbing her forehead. The aching had gone though she couldn't help but think back to that particular night. Blood, Morgana said. She remembered something hit her on the back before passing out. Her hand instinctively touched her backside.

No pain. No gash. No wound. At least none she felt so.

Nothing remarkable except for the fabric of her tattered attire, torn here and there, exposing some of her skin. Skin that's coarse and covered with filth as if never met any drop of water. She traced her hair—long hair against her fingers, falling down to her waist. She took a handful and looked at it closely.

Black hair. Black like an ink. Dry and grimy, she could feel dirt tangled in between.

_How long I've been like this already?_

She gazed around, feeling so out of place. Her ragged and foul state was the opposite of Morgana's bedchamber—clean and no reek of death. It wasn't spacious. Nothing really attracted her attention except for the number of books in the room. Three large shelves were placed side by side, almost covering the entire wall itself. In the front, stood an armchair and a scribe desk over a circular rug where Morgana possibly spent time reading her tomes.

The chair made her wonder where the woman slept for the last two days.

"You're up again. Are you feeling better?"

"Ah," Morgana had returned unannounced, or perhaps she just spaced out way too long earlier, not paying attention "yeah, I think so. My head doesn't really hurt anymore..."

The woman had a satchel in her right hand and a wooden box with a handle in another. She put them on the table and started unpacking its contents. Hestia could only blink in confusion looking at the items she'd never seen before.

"Alright, can you remove your clothes?" Morgana said while attaching a monocle-like device on her ear.

"I—I, what?"

"I need to perform an examination," she walked closer, the wooden-metallic instrument covered her entire right eye "I didn't wanna do it until you woke up."

"Uh, why not?"

"Would you let a stranger graze their hands upon your body when you're unconscious?"

Hestia's brows furrowed, "Huh, no! No—not when you put it that way..."

Morgana gave a roguish smile.

"I was messing with you. It's my personal code of conduct. I wouldn't take any action if no consent was given."

"But...you fixed my leg when I was asleep...?"

"You were bleeding," Morgana said again, "of course I'd take any necessary means if it's an emergency."

"I see...I understand..."

"Very well, shall we begin?"

Hestia was silent for a moment before finally loosening the girdle around her waist. One by one she discarded them on the floor. The outer tabard, the tunic, and lastly, she pulled the final article over her head—the linen undershirt. Her arms folded by reflex, covering her bare breasts with both hands.

"I'm ready."

"Take everything off, please."

"The—the trousers too?"

"I wouldn't be able to look at anything with that on."

"Alright..."

Carefully, she slid off the brown pants. The injury on her knee made it a little difficult. However, Morgana stopped her right away as she's about to reach the hem of her breechcloth.

"That can stay," the woman said, suppressing her laughter "I don't need to see  _everything_."

Blushing, Hestia averted her eyes and adjusted herself on the sheets. The weight of the bed shifted as Morgana sat behind her.

"Good lord...!"

"Wh—what?" Hestia turned to find the woman, hand on her mouth, stared at her back with her brows furrowed.

"That's a lot of wounds," Morgana said again, her eyes went up and down, "large and deep ones. Don't move, let me have a look."

"Wounds...?" she whispered to herself. Her attention caught on the pile of garments on the floor. The white, beige, grayish—she wasn't sure what to make of the color anymore. Dirt and whatever was that made them look like a bunch of rags rather than clothes. She noticed the dark stains on the fabric.

Dried blood.

"Does it hurt," Morgana applied pressure on her back, "when I touch it like this?"

"Um, no."

"Strange."

"Morgana...?"

"You truly don't feel any pain?"

"No."

"How about this?" her nails scraped gently on the surface.

Again Hestia shook her head.

"Alright. Now, up. Straighten your back."

"Like this?"

"Good. Stay still."

For an unknown reason, Hestia felt heat crept up her face. Morgana's slim fingers traced lines all over her skin. From her nape, upper arms, shoulders, to her spine, down to her scapulas and underneath. Every touch left the hair on her body rose, like a trail of breadcrumbs.

"Why are you so tensed? Relax a little."

"I, um...it's chilly..."

Morgana chuckled.

"Hold on a little more, okay?"

There was nothing she could do other than brushing off the growing sensation in her stomach. It was oddly familiar. Not that she hated it, the feeling was just different. Tingling, like an itch that needed to be scratched. She looked around, trying to find a distraction. Suddenly, she remembered something.

"You don't seem to be surprised."

"Me? About?"

"When you know I lost my memories..."

"Should I be?"

"Is it—is it common?"

"The memory loss? No, but it's been known to happen."

"So, you know how to cure it?"

"Can't say anything yet," Morgana gave a massage-like stroke around her waist, "but the most common cause is blunt objects to the head—which I figured you had."

She jolted a little when the woman suddenly got up and sat before her.

"Alright, now I need to look at your front."

"Uh," Hestia swallowed, looking away. She pressed her arms closer to her chest, "do I need to—um..."

"What?"

"Well..."

"No need to be embarrassed. It's not like I haven't seen naked women before—or men even."

"...okay then," Hestia gave in, looking at the walls as she released her arms. She didn't even look at her. But she knew Morgana's eyes were all over her face, neck, breasts, abdomen, and beyond. Everything. Every inch of her skin. Every part of her body. She knew this was necessary. She knew this was professional. Nothing less, nothing more. But why did she feel so uneasy yet at the same time...excited. That, she couldn't fathom. Perhaps because Morgana was the first and only person whom she had contact with. The fact that they just met made things didn't feel any easier.

"You found something?"

No answer. Morgana took off the device and put it aside. Hestia saw those green eyes stared straight at her torso.

"The thing you wore on your eye...what's that?" she asked again, attempting to draw away her own awkwardness. Hestia tried to look at anything but the woman. The chair, the bookshelves, the apparatus on the table—anything to keep her calm.

"Oculette. For seeing the tissue of the skin. The Guild invented it to aid us in examination and surgery."

"The Guild...The Alchemist Guild?"

"Yes."

Silence again. Though there were a lot of unanswered questions, she failed to find things to talk about. And just when she thought things couldn't get any worse, Morgana landed a hand on her stomach. Upon the marred flesh around her navel, those fingers grazed. Her insides felt peculiar. The sensation soon returned in haste. And that's it; Hestia knew she couldn't take it anymore. She grabbed Morgana's wrist, grumbling.

"What is it that you're looking for?"

Morgana looked at her oddly, pulling her hand away.

"I'm not finished. What's the matter with you?"

"I'm...it's—it's cold!

"Alright, then. I've got what I needed anyway."

"What did you find?"

The woman sighed and stood up, walking towards the dresser.

"Well, for now, I found that," She returned and handed over what appeared to be a clean towel, "you stink like a donkey and absolutely need a bath."

 

xxx

 

Irvine didn't hold back as he charged towards his opponent. He never did, even for the newly trained soldiers. He swung his halberd—a war spear with axe blade—sideways, breaking the defense of the boy before him. Scared, the poor lad stumbled backwards, dropping his sword and shield. He put up his arms as the tip pointed at his neck.

"I yield, Sir!"

"One slash and you're falling like a crumb. What will our army become? Next!"

A commotion rose among the initiates. They pushed, pointed at one another, whispering 'your turn, no, your turn!' to each other. Hearing the fuss, the Grand Paladin slammed his weapon to the ground. The crowd went quiet in an instant.

"Silence! What a bunch of clowns you are," he glared at the neophytes, "there'd be no time to hesitate in war. Either you strike or get struck first. Next!"

An initiate in leather armor was pushed forward. She looked back and mouthed a curse to whoever did that. Retreating wasn't an option, so she ultimately had to enter the sparring session. Irvine observed her silently. The girl was just like any other recruits—skinny and full of curiosity, a hormonal teenager just like he once was decades ago.

She went to the weapon rack; the chest-length auburn hair flowed behind her as she walked.

"No shield?" Irvine asked when she stood by, equipped with a single short sword.

"No, Your Excellency."

"Very well, then. Ready your stance. En garde...!"

The girl nodded and he dashed at full speed. She waited for the perfect timing, just an inch before his blade touched her skin, before dodging to the side. As the Grand Paladin realized he hit an empty air, he swerved and blocked her sneak attack from behind. A loud clang echoed as two weapons clashed. Irvine pushed frontward and so did she, neither held back for a while.

What was once quiet and fearful bunch, with enthusiasm the recruits began to cheer and watch.

"A short sword, your weapon won't last long against this halberd," Irvine growled, withstanding on his feet.

"Yes, Sir," she gave away; letting the man rammed his weight ahead, "it won't."

Taking advantage of her size and agility, she pulled herself to the ground, sliding through between his legs and stood back up behind him,

"But it's much lighter than yours."

Irvine smiled when he felt the tip of her sword at his nape. The crowd stood astounded as the Grand Paladin threw the spear and put his arms up, surrendering in the match.

"Impressive," he turned around, "what's your name, young soldier?"

The girl sheathed the sword and bowed, "Sethra of Albridge, Your Excellency."

He glanced at the other initiates and looked at her again, pondering. She had thought of a simple strategy. Evasion was a basic tactic of any battle yet not many people could execute it with finesse. Never mind she managed to turn his strength to her advantage in a short time. For such a young age, it'd be unfortunate if she only ended up as one of the garrison guards.

"Now, Sethra of Albridge," he unclasped his Paladin breastplates. Joined on the ground next the gauntlets and iron greaves. Then, in his shirt and buckled trousers, he stood ready, "shall we test the true strength of a soldier?"

Sethra had her lips parted in awe. She didn't expect the sparring session would have a one-on-one unarmed combat. Nobody did. The rookies whispered among themselves, voicing their surprise.

Reluctantly, she put away the sword and began removing her armor, matching her appearance with the Grand Paladin. They stood before each other. His tall stature was a goliath to her figure. Nonetheless, closed fists and everything, both took an equal stance before fighting.

The Grand Paladin, in fact, did not kill the dragon using his blade only. The story was told from tavern to tavern. When everyone from his platoon perished before his eyes, Irvine had single-handedly wrestled with its humongous tail and fiery head. His renowned title, the Dragonslayer—the sole survivor of the battle of Cadaver Hills—wasn't for nothing but such display of the raw power of a human. Sethra remembered that well and she knew it'd be foolish to even think of winning this time.

"Come on, hit me back!"

Seconds passed and not once had she riposted his attack. Rolling and evading to the side, all she did was dodging without respite. His brute strength almost got her in a close call. The girl leaped backwards and did a somersault before his eyes.

"Heh, you're nimble."

"Thank you, Sir," her chest heaved, controlling her breath to stay vigilant. Not only him, the maneuver took everyone, including herself by surprise. Sethra might have made it look easy but inside, her chest pounded and her head spun for a while. She was no pugilist but she knew a thing or two about being fast. Her previous life as an urchin had taught her for years.

More punches were laid only to be evaded again. For him, this was an interesting combat albeit a frustrating one. It's been more than five minutes yet not once was he able to strike her body. The girl was almost invisible—like fighting with the wind.

"Dodging would only take you nowhere!"

Sethra gulped. He was right. The fight wouldn't end if things went on like this. She knew defeat was inevitable. The question now was how to make that less painful. Even the knockback of his assault was enough to make her body throbbed.

And at times like this, she wished she had a sword.

"In battle, your opponents might knock your weapons out and you'd be left unarmed," as if reading her mind, he said between his blows. The cheer from the audience got louder. Apparently, on-duty guards started coming to watch the duel. Irvine finally grabbed her by the collar and tossed her to the ground.

Sethra cried. The collision hit her hard. The impact shocked her entire body, like bones being crushed to no remains. And before she could even recover, the Grand Paladin had climbed and sat on her stomach. Fist up high, aiming at her face. She couldn't move. She couldn't run. She couldn't escape. One way or another, she had no choice but yield.

However, she decided to do something else.

Everyone fell in abrupt silent. The moment when the loud, painful scream from the Dragonslayer as she grappled his groin and squeezed the mass between her fingers—was blasphemous, like seeing a heinous sin before their very eyes. They held their breath as his body staggered to the ground, finally giving her chance to get away.

Sethra stood back up and tackled him on the back of his knees. Now she had him lying face down with her boot on his back. Their stances were upturned.

"You...fight dirty..." Irvine's voice was a mixture of awe and agony.

"Apologize, Your Excellency," Sethra realized what she just did. The man was a high member of Paladin Order and he had as much of authority to make her life like hell, if he wanted to, "I—I didn't mean to..."

She withdrew her foot off his back only to be yanked down quickly by her hair. The girl yelped. She didn't see it coming. As her body hit the ground, he seized her arm and the two continued to wrestle once more.

"Now we go by your rule. I can fight dirty too," Irvine grunted in her ear as he had her by the neck. They rolled for a while before he managed to find her unguarded side. His punch was audible with a thud the second she felt a fist to the gut. The girl toppled to the side and coughed her insides out, feeling the burn in her abdomen.

"We're not finished."

Holding her stomach, Sethra curled like a ball. It felt like someone had stirred her innards into a void, spinning sideways and upside down.

"Come on, girl!"

Suddenly, someone was clapping from the crowd. Irvine turned to find a familiar face walked closer. The heraldic royal blue armor distinguished him from other soldiers. His long flaxen hair was tied into a ponytail, shining under the sun.

"What a magnificent demonstration of strength, I expect no less from you." The man offered his hand.

"Harding...!"

"Be easy on the recruits, will you?"

"Heh, not a chance if you want a resilient army," Irvine grinned. He grabbed his hand and stood up. "At least one of them is better than I thought," he glanced at the writhing girl.

"Take her to the barracks. This sparring session is over," Lieutenant Harding commanded the initiates, turning to his friend afterwards, "Come. Walk with me."

After everyone was dismissed, the two soldiers left the training ground and took a stroll around the stronghold.

"Well, that looks painful. You sure don't wanna get it checked?"

"It's nothing."

"Were I you, I'd freak out to death," Harding said, wincing "ooh, the thought of me not being able to enjoy pleasure again."

"That is disgusting."

"Really, Irvine, when was the last time you hammered the nails?"

"There are more important things in life than 'hammering nails' I suppose."

"No wonder you're so cross all the time," the lieutenant gave a chuckle, "you never take care of yourself."

"How very attentive of you."

"I mean, seriously, get yourself a woman. Or a man. Anyone. Someone to make that blood hot and pumping."

"I want nothing to do with the words 'hot' and 'pumping' whatever that means."

"But there's nothing better than the good old-fashioned, toes-curling, headboard-slamming—"

"Why are we still talking? Haven't you got some unholy things to do?"

"My, such attitude," Harding said, snickering "someone shall tame that righteous halberd of yours."

"Go away, you're embarrassing me."

The flaxen-haired man threw his head back, laughing out loud.

"Fine, fine. I just mean that Goddess gave us these...parts and urges. They're not just for looks, Irvine. It's healthy to have a company once in a while."

"I'm not you. I don't have people thrown themselves at me all the time."

"Try a different approach then. Be less cranky," he shrugged, "not everyone loves their dragons to be slain right away."

"...you did not just say that."

He laughed again, patting the Paladin's shoulder, "Sorry, man, I just missed you so much. It's been months!"

"I thought the trip was supposed to be longer. When did you return?"

"Last night. Kelredan Empire is stubborn as ever, the diplomacy didn't do much," Harding looked at the trees around, the birds were chirping on the branches "How are you doing anyway?"

"The usual. My castle life would bore you. Tell me more about your journey."

"Hmm, fair enough," he said, "Well, Kelredan Isles...beautiful beaches, beautiful people. Always nice weather to be in skimpy outfits. Scrumptious seafood—I didn't know I was allergic to clams though. Alas, again Empress Madekwe refuses to sign the treaty. I bet my coins she would still in like, forever. Ha, King Arallan and his demands—got the emissaries quite uptight for weeks! But aside from that...things were fantastic."

"Hmph, sometimes I want to be a Royal Guard," Irvine smirked, "grand feasts and lavish trips whenever."

"True, not that I'm complaining, though I prefer the great respect that you Paladins got."

"That's not respect, people are just scared."

Harding scoffed, "Is that why you train the recruits yourself now? To frighten them?"

"To make them confront their fear."

"You're being too harsh, Irvine. They're just teenagers."

"If they couldn't face me now, they couldn't face bigger threats later."

"Well, hmm, can't really argue with that," Harding said again, "speaking of which, that ginger girl you had a barbaric brawl with. She was rather brave...or foolish I think."

"She's different indeed. And I'm not talking about her skills."

"Which rank will she join?"

"I didn't ask. Let's hope she'll enter yours."

"A Royal Guard? You want her to be like me?"

"That girl's too adept to be in garrison. And it'd be a waste if she's dead in The Union."

Lieutenant Harding released a long sigh,

"The Union. Right. I just hope someday you'd spill me the beans."

"Keep dreaming. Not in a million years, I would."

As a sworn holy knight, Irvine wasn't allowed to say anything. About The Union, the oath, and other things in the Paladinhood. It's just the way things were, like a secret society it was. The Grand Paladin honored the code rather highly to disclose any detail to anyone—even to his childhood friend for life.

He thought back to their younger days. A scrawny boy with crooked nose and acne problems he was. Being picked on by other recruits was his daily meal. Ugly, they said. Puny, they said. Worthless, they said. Everyone was insecure and wanted to feel better about themselves.

Except for the sixteen-year-old Harding, the only one who loathed seeing young Irvine got beaten constantly—the only one who actually stepped in instead of watching from the corner. Harding was the only one who'd talked to him like a human being, like a person he should be.

"Really, not even a little? Shall I drug you with a gallon of strongest ale in the tavern then? I've been thinking about doing it."

"I'd pay a sovereign to see you succeed."

Rumor had it The Union was a harsh initiation of the Paladin Order. Only the holy knights knew what went on in the ceremony itself. To give oneself to the Paladinhood was to give away one's old life and identity. For Goddess and the Church, they served until the end. Those who fell in The Union would be having the notice delivered to the family—should they have any—forbidding them to attend the memorial. They died a holy death, they said. Not befitting a common funeral. And so, for this reason, many parents prohibited their children to join their rank.

"What kind of dirty little secret I wonder. Is it an orgy? I hope it's an orgy. But then why would someone die in an orgy? Hmm."

"Why? Why is it always about fornication with you?"

"No. Not really," his grin returned, "sometimes it's about fornication with other people."

"Samael's knees! It's impossible to talk to you," Irvine groaned. He had his face straight, baffled beyond words. The lieutenant burst into a laugh, almost in tears even.

"Yeah, right, sorry. Goddess, I can't help it sometimes!" Harding spoke between his laughter. "I mean, you Paladins are so damn secretive. Your troops wouldn't even let me in the tower though they knew who I was."

"You went to the tower?"

"Just before I came here," he cleared his throat, "seems like it wasn't only me who was hoping to see you there."

Irvine stopped in his tracks.

"Someone wishes to see me?"

"Yes, I met a soldier by the courtyard. He was...hmm...wrecked I'd say? He had bandages around his limbs. Said he was looking for you."

"Who?"

"I don't know," Harding said again, "he rambled about vampires. Poor lad, he looked terrified. I told him to wait in the sick bay before I went looking for you."

"Vampires...?"

"I know, right? I don't know why he talked about something like that. Do you really know him?"

Suddenly, the Grand Paladin felt a massive lump in his throat.

"I should go."

 

xxx

 

Morgana showed up at the door, saying the bath was ready. The woman had dismissed herself, leaving her alone in a towel for a while. Hestia could hear noises from the other side—from a kitchen or some sort. Cracking of firewood, clanging of metal cauldrons and pots, the rustling of things being moved, and other sounds she couldn't make of.

"Hold onto me," Morgana said, seeing her struggle to arise. Hestia complied, circling her right arm around her shoulders while propping herself with another. The woman pulled her body closer to get her on her feet. Her nose unintentionally brushed against Morgana's neck. And in that second, Hestia thought she smelled like some herbs or spices.

"You're really tall," Morgana looked at her when she finally managed to stand up. She was right. To her own towering height, the young physician was only of her nose level. When she put her arm around her, Hestia could almost feel the woman would sink into her clinch—like a stuffed doll in an embrace of a child.

"Ah!" The pain spread throughout her veins. It was a mistake to move the injured knee ever so slightly. Even going ahead was difficult. Hestia bit her lip while making tiny jumps using her left foot, "Goddess!"

"Goddess?" Morgana muttered, eyes on the crippled woman, "interesting."

"What?"

The apprentice said nothing and continued to escort her to the other room. The destination was just next door, right by the kitchen. Morgana's house was really small. The halls were narrow. It's a relief she didn't have to make long trips between rooms.

Her eyes swept around as they entered the washroom. It was smaller than the bedchamber—perhaps half of the space or even less. Not much of sunlight went through; the window was covered by a white curtain. On the wall, hung a large brush and some rags. In the middle, stood a wooden tub. Hestia expected it to be filled with water but there's nothing inside. The water—hot water Morgana had boiled before, was in several buckets next to the tub. In the room was also a stool, a woven basket of soaps and amenities, another basket with more rags, a chamberpot, and a standing mirror by the corner.

"Wait here," Morgana guided her to the stool. Hestia sat down and watched the woman poured water into the tub. One by one, her thin arms hoisted those buckets. They looked heavy. Veins prodded from her forehead every time she made a lift.

"I wish I could help you."

"This?" droplets of sweat poured off her brows, "No need. I'm used to it."

Come to think of it, Hestia hadn't seen anyone else around. Morgana probably lived by herself in this house. She wondered whether the woman had a family or not.

"You can get in," Morgana said again, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. The tub is filled with water now. She then headed for the baskets, searching for something.

Hestia took off the towel and dropped it on the floor. Next, she lowered her breechcloth. However, the scanties got stuck around her bandaged knee. She slid off the other leg easily but it's too painful to fold her right one. Morgana turned around and noticed it right away.

The woman walked closer, "here, let me help you."

"No, I can—"

"It's alright," Morgana spoke in a soft voice, "straighten your leg."

She felt her ears hot the moment Morgana kneeled before her. Not only ears—her cheeks, face, neck, everything. Her body tightened as her heart pounded against her chest. Loudly, as if it would leap out of her mouth any moment right now.

"You really don't need to—"

"Hestia, it's alright," Morgana looked up, a smile formed on her lips. Her hand reached the article and pulled it, gently, straight through her injured limb. She could feel those fingers grazed upon her skin, on her thigh, her calf, down to her foot and the tip of her toes.

As a familiar pressure built within her stomach, Hestia could only look away, doing her best covering all the right places.

"Up, place your right leg here," Morgana adjusted the wounded leg, helping her lowered herself into the tub, "don't let the bandage get wet."

A sigh of contentment escaped her lips. The dirt from her skin disappeared into the water as she submerged herself. Closing her eyes, she embraced the new feeling. Warmth. It was all over her, healing her body and soul. After all those times spent in dry, somber days of filth and pitch blackness, now she's basked in light and tenderness, finally feeling like human again.

"Is the water too hot?"

"It's—it's fine."

Morgana took a soapy brush with long wooden handle and began scouring her back with it. The bristles were a little coarse against the skin. It wasn't unpleasant, rather, Hestia somewhat enjoyed the sensation. She wanted to do it on her own but alas, she couldn't help but surrender to the attention.

"You spoke of the Goddess earlier," the woman suddenly said.

"I do? What about it?"

"You lost your memories but still remember who you worship," the brush moved to the upper arms and chest, "you also retain basic cognition with your surroundings. You know how to speak the common tongue, and most importantly, you know manners."

"So, what does that mean?"

"You remember things you've been taught since small. Kind of like indoctrination—it's ingrained in your soul." The woman lifted her maimed leg and carefully brushed around it.

"Oh..."

"I'd say your predicament is temporary. Perhaps everything will return after a while."

Her self-consciousness returned as Morgana scrubbed her breasts and stomach, "Um, Morgana, you don't need to wash me..."

"Oh, please," the woman paid no heed, the brush kept rubbing briskly "you can't even take off your undergarments by yourself."

Hestia frowned a little. She hated being in this state. Helpless and handicapped, it's no different with her being like a small child.

"Close your eyes."

She couldn't even reply when suddenly Morgana poured the basin of water over her head.

"Do you...always treat your patients like this?" Hestia asked when the woman started to stroke her hair. There were no bubbles but it smelled like a flower. Morgana had used some sort of aromatic liquid to wash the tresses.

"Why are you asking?"

"I don't know. You seem to be so used to it."

"We don't normally have strangers stranded in Ravaged Woods—especially with a memory loss and crippled limb," Morgana's fingers massaged the scalp lightly "so, no. I do not."

"I...I see..."

Their eyes met for a moment.

"You look sad."

"No, I just—I just feel like a burden. Can I at least help you with anything?"

"Don't worry about it," Morgana smiled, scooping the water with a metal bowl "close your eyes."

Again, lukewarm water poured over her head, rinsing the remaining liquid off her hair. Morgana's hands kept stroking all over her body, making sure there's no dirt intact. The bathwater, however, had gradually turned murky with filth.

"Alright, all done."

"You're so kind," Hestia muttered under her breath. It was supposed to go unnoticed.

"I'm sorry?"

"I—I mean, you keep doing this and telling me not to worry about things..."

Morgana arched her brows; her lips formed a quizzical sneer.

"Do you want me to boss you around instead? Make you clean the house in that state?"

"Uh, no—no, I don't mean it like that."

She lowered her voice, "Hestia, I simply do what needs to be done."

"Then why you?" Hestia asked again, "why not other villagers or Elder Nerida?"

"You want a senile man to bathe a young lady like you?" Morgana stood up; reaching for a couple of rags from the basket "I'm his apprentice, the only another in this village with medical knowledge. Who do you think is more appropriate to take care of you?"

Hestia looked at her in the eyes.

"I'll find a way to repay your kindness someday," she said "...I still believe you're a good person, though."

Morgana rolled her eyes and said nothing as she guided her out. The water shifted, waves running over the side of the tub, sliding to the floor.

"Sit here and dry yourself," Morgana hand her a towel before heading somewhere. There was a smaller basket with Hestia's ragged clothes around her arm.

"Where are you going...?"

The woman gave an impish tone, "thought you wanna be independent. Changing your mind real quick?"

"I—I don't...No, that's not what I meant!" Hestia blurted out. Her cheeks reddened, "Goddess, you love messing with people..."

"On the contrary, I'm mostly serious," the brunette shrugged, "you said you wanted to be useful. How about letting me exploit you for my own amusement?"

"You're joking right..." she said with an innocuous face.

Morgana's eyes squinted and her cheeks arose as she laughed. In that second, Hestia swallowed, feeling her heart skipped a beat. The woman wasn't exactly the belle of the ball but she thought the sight was beautiful.

"Still believe I'm a good person then?"

"I—um, whatever you say, I guess..."

"Good. I see you in a minute," Morgana smiled, walking towards the door.

"Where are you taking my clothes?"

"I will burn them before they spread plagues," the woman glanced at the dirty pile of fabric "it's a wonder how you managed to stay in the same underpants for who knows how long."

Hestia had rubbed herself dry for a couple of minutes when she looked closely at her own skin. Scars. Arms, thighs, stomach—dried scars everywhere.

_What happened? Why do I have these things?_

Suddenly, she wanted nothing more than to look at herself in the mirror.

She bolted from her seat and made small hops with one foot to the corner of the room. The standing mirror wasn't that big, but just enough to be able to see her whole body. She stood before it and immediately froze in horror.

There, worse than she imagined, was a body marred beyond repair. She turned around and her eyes began to water at the sight. A large, diagonal ridge of mangled flesh spread across her back, from her right shoulder down to her left scapula. It felt rough against her fingertips—like touching the surface of an uneven rock. Scars were all over her pale skin. From lines of stab wounds to disfigured spots of burnt tissues. Brown, reddish, dark marks of injuries covered her body. She turned around to look at her face.

Eyes—gray eyes. Underneath a pair of bushy eyebrows. Her lips were thick, lacking in color. Her fingers made their way to her cheeks, tracing every line and crook on her face. Sharp jaw, prominent cheekbones—being emaciated had made her looked wretched beyond words.

"Hestia," a voice called from behind. She turned to find Morgana had returned. Quickly, she wrapped herself in the towel.

"That's an axe wound. The one on your back," she walked closer with a concerned look on her face.

"Axe...?"

"Not just any axe. That one was a great axe—the kind for chopping trees. I don't know how you even survived that one."

Hestia swallowed, the flashing images started coming in her head. A trembling chill came down upon her as she recalled the moment someone hit her on her back. Axe—a great axe, she said. Someone was trying to murder her that night.

"So....the blood...?"

"Yes, it was yours," Morgana said again "it's strange since the wound looks recent yet it's dried already. And the fact that you don't even feel a thing..."

"So...ugly..." Hestia whispered to herself while looking at her own reflection again.

"What?"

"I look so repulsive," she said again, louder this time. A single teardrop rolled down her cheek.

"That's not true. Don't say that to yourself."

"But the scars..."

"I'm guessing that's your battle scars," Morgana stood behind her, looking at her through the mirror "you've been in many combats, haven't you?"

"Battle...combat...?"

"You have a beautiful body, Hestia."

The abrupt statement made her eyes widened in surprise.

"I—uh, wh—"

"I'm stating facts as your physician," Morgana said again "I have seen many bodies and none as physically fit as you. Look again in the mirror."

She didn't really notice it before but now that the woman said it, her body did look well-toned with defined curves of muscles. Combined with the fact that she harbored countless wounds, this could only mean one thing,

"Am I...Am I a..."

"Yes," Morgana nodded, "I also think you're a soldier."

 

xxx

 


End file.
